


I consider it a challenge

by stepquietly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Comeplay, D/s undertones, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepquietly/pseuds/stepquietly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does Jon not hug right or something? Is there a Sidney Crosby hugging system that no one told Jon about? Because fuck that. Jon gives <i>awesome</i> hugs; fucking Kaner told him so.</p><p>(Or, the fic where Tazer learns how to enjoy not touching Sid)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I consider it a challenge

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have been possible without the amazing one-two beta punch of [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra)[**Petra**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra) and [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/sabrina_il)[](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/sabrina_il)**Marina** who went over and above the call of duty to negotiate meta, provide repeated feedback and help me name this thing. You guys rock!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic has non negotiated D/S undertones that get quite pushy and intense. I've tried hard not to have it cross over into dub-con, but be aware that the fic does edge a bit in that direction.

Fuck, Jon’s drunk. The hotel room is spinning and Jon really wants to go sit by fucking Seabs because this whole thing is his fault.

If he throws up, he thinks vengefully, he really wants to throw up on Seabs because that fucker, and his tequila shots, and calling Jon a pussy for not chugging his beer faster. Jon burps and feels the acidic backwash of beer tang and stomach bile, _ugh_.

Fuck throwing up though because Jon is a fucking winner. He’s gold, golden, right at the top. Nothing could be better than this, not even throwing up on Seabs, that magnificent fucker. He grins wide and toasts his glass in Seabs’ general direction.

Shit, this stuff might be stronger than Jon had counted on. Also someone is shoving their way onto the couch with him and the bastard has a giant ass, what the fuck.

Jon flails for a couple of seconds before he rights himself and turns to see… Sid? Sid, who’s weirdly flushed and pressed up against Jon’s side like he hadn’t frozen like a deer in headlights in front of God and multiple countries when Jon had hugged him on the ice.

Fucker, Jon thinks harshly for a minute, before he remembers Sid’s goal, and then Jon’s back to the happy haze of gold, gold, gold, bitches. Sid’s awesome. They’re fucking _winners_. 

Without putting any thought into it, he throws an arm out and hugs Sid because that last goal’s the reason they get to party all night and go home fucking heroes.

But Sid stiffens up again and squirms to get away. Hell, Jon’s beginning to think this is personal because what is up with that already? Does Jon not hug right or something? Is there a Sidney Crosby hugging system that no one told Jon about? Because fuck that. Jon gives _awesome_ hugs; fucking Kaner told him so. Man, it must suck to be Kaner right now 'cause Jon’s all gold here and on top of the world as a motherfucking Olympian _champion_. Jon should go check on him and maybe give him one of his awesome hugs –

Except that when Jon tries to get up, Sid slides his hand up his leg, which uh, isn’t a hug but is really fucking close to Jon’s crotch, what the fuck?

“The fuck, Sid?” He gestures widely to encompass both the previous hug and Sid’s hand sitting high enough on Jon’s thigh to have his knuckles brush Jon’s balls.

That’s something Jon’s trying really hard not to think about.

Sid just looks back at him like always, grinning but with his chin thrust out aggressively, “What?”

“What d’you mean, what? The fucking hand, man. You’re touching me and you don’t do touch, eh?” Jon’s actually a little concerned that Sid might not remember. Actually Sid’s pretty vehement about not drinking too often. Jon doesn’t know if Sid’s liver is going to be able to process half the shit they’ve managed to drink tonight. Shit, shit, fucking alcohol poisoning is the last thing –

“I touch,” Sid bites out petulantly, and fuck, Jon isn’t going to let _that_ slide.

“Fuck you, no you don’t. I should know, man, we were on the fucking ice and you couldn’t hug me back.” Not that Jon feels stupid about how that played out or anything.

“You’re not listening,” Sid states, his chin angling out even more aggressively, “ _I_ touch.”

“Eh?” Jon’s distracted by Sid taking his hand away only to slide it surreptitiously across Jon’s back and that’s –

“It’s not hard to understand. I touch you, you don’t touch me. Get it?” Sid’s face is pretty flushed and his hair is the same wild scraggle of sweaty curls it’s been since they showered and started drinking. He looks really fucking determined and also like he’d like to punch Jon. His hand’s still sitting on the dip just above the edge of Jon’s sweatpants and it sounds like Sid’s talking about more than just hugging.

“We’re talking about more than just hugging here, right?” Jon asks, because it never hurts to clarify.

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Sid says.

Jon can feel his hackles rising because what the fuck is Sid thinking, man. They’re with the team right now, they can’t just leave to go fuck somewhere.

It’s not that Jon’s not all for taking Sid somewhere and fucking that ass, or that mouth, or rubbing off between his shoulder blades. Not that Jon’s thought about this much at all. But this is shit you do or talk about on the down-low and not when there’s a room full of guys randomly staggering around, drunk and high on victory.

He reaches out to touch Sid’s shoulder because he’s going to be gentle with his let-down. ‘Cause shit, if anyone deserves to get laid tonight Sid does.

But Sid’s eyebrows come together angrily and he slaps Jon’s hand away before it even makes contact with his shoulder.

“I told you, _I_ touch. _Not_ you. Are you too drunk to get the concept?” Sid enunciates every word like Jon’s the one being a dick, and then has the stones to use the same hand he slapped Jon away with to hold his wrist.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Jon responds automatically. He pulls his hand away before he punches Sid in his stupid face. Then he stumbles halfway across the room to perch on the edge of the bed where Duncs and Niedermayer are sprawled, deep in a discussion about what they’d love to order from the room service menu now if they could afford to eat whatever the fuck.

Shit, Jon thinks as he slides down to the floor, this is fucking stupid. Fucking Sid doesn’t get to tell him what to do; he’s not the fucking captain! And even if he were, Jon’s got a right to touch or whatever.

Screw this, he thinks, and hauls himself back to his feet, lurches back across the room to where Sid’s drinking one of the few remaining beers and grinning while he watches Nash and Morrow get into some sort of drunken wrestling match. Nash’s sweatpants are halfway to his knees and Perry is slumped over laughing hoarsely into the couch cushions just inches from Sid.

Jon marches straight up to Sid, waits for Sid to notice him before he jerks his head to indicate the door.

Sid grins at him triumphantly and chugs the rest of his beer. He wipes his mouth off with his hand, reminding Jon of how plush his lips look even when they’re not wet like that, and stands up, gestures for Jon to follow him.

The guys that notice them leave cat-call and yell insults or insist that they come back and keep drinking, and Jon doesn’t need the hassle of explaining that they’re just going to go outside to talk about Sid’s fucking stupid rules before they come back in. Whatever, they’ll just have to deal.

The hallway is full of stragglers from other teams either stumbling to their own rooms or looking upset and pacing. A couple of them are talking in low voices, some are on the phone, and there’s the rancid smell of vomit and sweat in the hallway.

Jon feels a little sorry for those guys that aren’t taking home a medal; the Olympics are great and everything but man, it’s a fuckload of pressure to deliver and he’s pretty lucky that he gets to walk home with gold.

Just, yeah. But gold, man. _Gold_.

Jon’s so busy thinking about how he gets to be one of the lucky ones going home a freaking hero that he doesn’t even really pay attention to Sid leading them to his room with he shares with Weber, or how he locks the door once they’re away from prying ears and eyes.

“Sid,” Jon starts, trying to figure out how to put this because it’s not every day that your – teammate? friend? – is an asshole. Except Kaner, so yeah. But that’s a different kind of asshole.

And maybe this is a hazard of being as drunk as he is but Jon’s having some trouble thinking that through. He’s not a hundred percent sure that Sid and Kaner _can_ really be put in the same category of asshole. Even if both of them have some fucking weird ideas and bitchy pouts and look like they need the attitude fucked out of them. Sid’s… easier? More polite? Yeah, but he’s also less flexible -

Jon’s train of thought is interrupted by Sid muscling him back against the wall. And he definitely isn’t prepared when Sid grips his wrists tight and starts pulling them up, leans his face in so it’s an inch from Jon’s and states matter-of-factly, “Put your hands behind your head. Don’t move them, okay?”

“The fuck –” Jon’s already trying to move away from the wall, is already bringing his hands down, but Sid’s hands are manacled tight around his wrists, pushing them back against the wall.

“If you move them, this stops. You get me? No touching.”

“What?” Jon pushes Sid off. Sid lets go of his wrists though he doesn’t back off, continues to stand just a shade too close. Sid’s face is right up in Jon’s and Jon can smell the beer on his breath, can see the bruise near the edge of his eye that he’s going to have to ice at some point. He’s close enough to see Sid’s slightly crooked teeth and count all his eyelashes and definitely close enough to knee him in his fucking balls if he doesn’t move.

“Fuck you, man. I don’t get what your fucking problem is. I didn’t come out here to fuck you and I sure as hell didn’t come out here so you could order me around. You’re not the fucking boss of me.” Jon breathes hard, his hands tightening into fists.

He’s pretty sure Sid knows how pissed off Jon is because Jon can feel his own glare, can feel the way it’s pulling his brows together; his mouth is pursed fucking tight and he’s grinding his teeth.

Sid meets his eyes dead-on. “Do you want me to be?” And wait, what?

“ _What_?”

Sid looks annoyed, like Jon is trying his patience which – really, _Jon_ is trying his fucking patience?

They stare at each other for a while before Sid finally sighs, says, “You do what I say, Jon. It’s not that hard.” Like it’s just that simple. What is Sid even _on_?

“But I can fucking touch you if I want to,” Jon blurts. And wait, that wasn’t going to be his point. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The two of them are pressed up against each other, chests almost touching, eerily reminiscent of a face-off except there’s no puck and that’s not a fucking stick Jon’s feeling pressed against his thigh.

And it’s not that Jon hadn’t realized that Sid wanted to fuck around with his kinky touching bullshit. But there’s a pretty big difference between guessing that and having a guy’s junk pressed against your thigh. Also, huh, Sid’s gay. Jon totally wins that bet.

It takes Jon a little while longer to notice that he’s getting hard too, though his junk’s nowhere near Sid. The only points of contact between them are Sid’s hands on his wrists and Sid’s hard on where it is grinding slowly into his thigh.

Sid’s breathing heavily into Jon’s face, and Jon’s thinking about leaning in when Sid fucking ruins it again by calmly saying, “You can do whatever you want. But if you _move_ , if you touch me, then you go do it with someone else. Yeah?”

Sid’s got this intense expression, and Jon must be losing his mind because he’s hardening further, going from mild interest to actual hard as nails arousal. Sure Sid’s hot; Jon’s not blind. But he’s never really thought about fucking Sid like this, never thought about him not being able to touch all that skin. Jon’s been watching Sid tear it up on the ice all this time, wanted to go down on his knees in the middle of the fucking locker room and just bury his face in that ass, wanted to take Sid apart so that instead of screaming about the match he’s screaming about how good Jon’s giving it to him. Shit, when he imagined it, he’d imagined drunken blowjobs, or handjobs, or even a drunken fuck where Sid could fucking ride him with all that energy he shoves out onto the ice. Nothing like whatever the hell this is.

But this is pretty hot too, with Sid leaning in and watching him like Jon’s the play. Fuck, Jon deserves to get laid tonight and so does Sid. So they should do this, even if it does mean playing by Sid’s stupid rules.

“Yeah,” he whispers in a voice so deep it surprises him. “Fine, fuck, whatever.” He lets Sid tug his wrists back up above his head and hold them there.

Jon’s glad that Sid doesn’t crow about it like any of the other fuckers on his team would – Kaner would probably stop the fucking sex to crow – but just nods, resolute, and takes his hands off Jon’s wrists, slides them up over the thin material of his t-shirt and pinches his nipples hard.

Jon’s knees buckle.

He slides down against the wall a little before he locks his knees and pushes himself back up. His hands are flat against the cool wall and he tries to focus on that rather than the warm, shooting pain from where Sid still has his nipples pinched tight between thumb and forefinger.

Sid seems to be gauging his response, looking into Jon’s eyes, gaze almost clinical. Jon might think Sid wasn’t getting anything from the steady squeezing pressure if Sid didn’t shift his stance to adjust for the tent pushing out the front of his jeans.

Sid seems to be waiting for something but Jon isn’t sure what it is. He never looks away from Jon’s face, though his fingers keep gradually tightening, pulling back so the pressure is getting more intense every other minute.

Jon locks his knees more firmly and leans minutely into the pressure because there’s something about that little twisting motion Sid uses that pulls the material of Jon’s t-shirt tighter across his chest. It makes him feel like his skin is going tight as well, prickles from along his spine and shoulder blades tingling across his skin to meet his nipples. It makes him want to arch his back.

This goes on for a while. After the pain starts to fade into numbness, Jon goes ahead and arches his back and yeah, that feels good, brings back some of the sharp prickles from before along with the hurt, like something slicing into him. This is nothing like the absent agony of being hit on the ice that he’s spent his life ignoring; Jon knows he’s supposed to focus on the small pain, uses it to make him feel so awake, like he could never be tired or bruised, just clear. Ready. It’s like his whole body is awake, like his whole body is in his nipples. It’s, _fuck_ , it’s so good.

He pushes his chest more firmly into Sid’s hands – though Sid makes a small dissatisfied noise at that – and it makes Sid hold his nipples really tight like they’re reins or knobs or something. But he specifically told Jon not to do shit so Jon’s stuck waiting him out unless he wants to end this.

Jon’s not ready for this to be done though. He wants Sid to pinch more of him 'til all his blood surges to the surface. He wants Sid to stop pinching his nipples and _do_ something. He wants to grab Sid’s hand and put it on his cock. He can’t stop sweating.

Suddenly Sid pulls his hands away, steps away and starts stripping out of his clothes. And Jon can’t even enjoy the view of that large, pale chest because his chest is fucking _exploding_.

There’s so much pain rushing through his nipples; they’re burning, fuck, fuck, ow, motherfucker. He grunts and, scrabbles at his own chest while he tries to push down the pain – nothing compared to what he’s used to, yeah, but this is sex and Jon doesn’t normally think about pain when he’s fucking.

Eventually he just grabs his pecs and waits the burn out, waits 'til it softens into an ache, into the perpetual reminder that his nipples are there on his chest. He rubs them gently and there’s a warm achey tingle that runs down to pool in his stomach, makes him want to lean back against the cool wall again.

“Take your clothes off,” he hears and looks up. Sid is naked already, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling idly at his cock while he watches Jon.

Jon feels stripped bare by Sid’s stare, like Sid’s laughing at him for needing to clutch at himself like some sort of –

He doesn’t think about it, just pushes off the wall and strips down as quickly and efficiently as he can, kicks the pile of clothes to the side to they’re relatively out of the way. When he’s done, he clasps his hands behind his back with his legs apart, straightens his posture and glares down his nose at Sid.

He can’t help but flush though because he’s fucking hard and Sid’s just sitting there watching him. Jon doesn’t touch his cock. He doesn’t even try to think about why.

Sid moves so he’s lying back, one hand running a finger slowly up and down his chest, the other hand pushing at the divide in his full lower lip. He’s acting like he actually listens to all the shit they give him in the locker room about his mouth and his ass which Jon can see from the gap between Sid’s legs –

“Yeah. Now come over here and stand next to the bed.” Sid’s voice has gone hoarse and Jon’s fiercely satisfied that this is working better for Sid than it is for Jon. Sid’s more flushed than Jon is right now, is clearly enjoying this more. Jon’s winning whatever the fuck this is then.

Jon resolutely doesn’t think about how aware he is of his cock leaking, how standing here naked and doing nothing is making him feel so weird and so hot at the same time. Fucking Sid, man, and his fucking strange bullshit.

He walks over to the bed, and this time he remembers to lock his knees so when Sid leans up and pulls on his nipples, he’s ready for the shooting pain. What he isn’t ready for is the way his dick jerks like it’s somehow connected to his nipples, like Sid’s manipulating that part of him by pulling him down, down, and Jon has to follow the pressure because it’s too much otherwise.

He scrambles onto the bed so he can straddle Sid’s hips, kneels so he’s on all fours leaning over Sid while panting from the pressure and pull and hurt of his nipples. Sid doesn’t let up even while Jon changes positions, and it feels like Sid’s the centre of the room and Jon _has_ to stay close.

His knees are sinking into the bed and he can see the sweat beading on Sid’s hairline right up to where it gets hidden by his mess of curls, can feel the sweat gathering between his own shoulder blades. Sid’s hands smooth long strokes along his sides now, like Jon is a horse that’s performed particularly well and needs to be given a firm rubdown.

“You’re doing okay,” Sid says, like Jon’s one of his players that needs reassurance. And shit, that feels good all the way until –

“Stay still,” Sid says harshly, like Jon hasn’t been doing his best to keep to that stupid rule all along. But then Sid leans in and sucks just above Jon’s nipple, his lip and chin grazing its peaked surface.

Jon’s arms are trembling. He’s just staring blindly at the wall for a few seconds trying to work his way through the sensation, overwhelmed by how it’s not close enough. He wants Sid to put his mouth on his damn nipple, want to be able to push Sid’s head into place and just _make_ him.

He has to close his eyes on that thought because if he doesn’t he really will just grab Sid’s head and fucking shove his mouth over his nipple. And then Sid will stop. And all of Jon’s fucking patience with this shit will have been for nothing.

Sid’s hands are still pushing those long strokes along Jon’s sides and Jon can’t believe how he’s trembling just from this. They haven’t even fucking kissed. He hasn’t touched Sid once.

But the way he’s shaking in small trembles all along his arms and his back is getting worse, and he’s cold in the creases of his knees and elbows.

Jon’s really not sure what’s happening here but Sid’s hands are warm, and his mouth is warm, and everywhere Sid isn’t touching him is hot and cold by turns, and fuck, Jon can’t take any more. It’s not fucking enough; he needs, he needs –

Jon grabs his cock tight, squeezing it painfully because he can’t control how fucking much he just needs to put his hand on it. Sid stops stroking him, just lies back and watches Jon jack himself with quick jerks, no finesse.

He’s just tugging as quickly as he can, not paying any attention to his balls or his ass like he normally would, but still so, so aware of his nipples. He stays focused on Sid, tries to keep his gaze challenging even though he’s grunting and sweating, fucking his fist as fast as he can.

He's so caught up in the way they're not touching -Jon bent over Sid like he could just lean in and kiss him, suck on _his_ nipples - that he almost misses how his knuckles and the head of his cock fleetingly brush the skin of Sid’s stomach.

Jon freezes, and the look in Sid's eyes shifts abruptly from heated confrontation to annoyance.

“Get off of me,” Sid says, calm again like he wasn’t into what they were just doing at all. And fuck no, Jon thinks, because Sid doesn’t get to be like that. He doesn’t get to call all the fucking shots.

Except Sid pushes at Jon’s shoulders, and screw that, Jon thinks frantically, and starts rapidly stripping his dick again, trying to cage Sid in as much as he can while balanced on one hand and trying not to touch him. He keeps his eyes locked on Sid’s, lets his anger meet and match what he sees staring back at him.

“Jon, I’m going to punch you,” Sid grits out.

Fuck, it looks like Sid isn’t joking, is really serious about wanting out.

Jon grunts, makes a controlled collapse onto his side, and lets Sid slip off the side of the bed.

Sid doesn’t go far though, just crosses the carpet between the beds to settle on the other bed in the room. Jon thinks idly that Weber isn’t going to be happy when he realises that Sid’s naked ass has rubbed all over his sheets.

Whatever, Jon’s still got to get off and Sid’s clearly not going to be involved, weird bullshit rules and all. So Jon takes himself back in hand and tries to ignore Sid’s intent stare from the next bed, tries not to think about why his nipple is so sore when he reaches a hand up to thumb it, wishes he had an extra set of hands so someone could pinch the other and tighten the pressure 'til it hurts just right again. He sweeps his hand down firmly along his side and cups his balls, just holds them warm in his palm.

He leaves his hand there so the force of jerking his dick will slap his balls against it. His knuckles are just grazing at the curves of his ass; reminding Jon that if he pushed even a little he’d be putting pressure on his hole. Shit, that’s hot. That’s the stuff –

He hears a small, choked off moan from the next bed and looks over to see Sid striping his chest, position mirroring his – a hand on his dick, the other around his balls.

Jon’s so distracted by Sid spurting all over himself that he forgets to concentrate on his own cock. He barely even notices when he stops tugging, his interest caught by the way Sid’s chest has gone pink from under his chin to half way down his treasure trail, the small splatters of come glistening over that faint pink.

He watches raptly as Sid sighs as if put upon and starts gathering the come, swiping it up with the flat of his palm.

Sid looks thoughtfully at the wet mess on his palm before he looks up to meet Jon’s eyes.

Jon feels the intensity in the room rise again, the same sort of ramp up he gets before a game and man, Sid is the living, breathing soul of fucking hockey because this is as far from the rink as Jon can get, yet he can’t stop thinking that they should have helmets on if shit’s going down this way.

Then Sid holds his hand out to Jon and says, his voice almost sly, “Lick.”

 _What_ , Jon thinks blankly. He doesn’t do that, has never been the sort of guy to enjoy the taste of come. It doesn’t even look hot; it’s just this stuff on Sid’s hand and this crap isn’t doing anything for him.

Except Jon can’t seem to look away, even as he glares and spits out, “Fuck, no. You don’t ask for shit like that!”

Sid looks genuinely startled, and Jon feels a bit weird for having to say this shit but he isn’t going to eat Sid’s come.

“Jon,” Sid says carefully, hand still outstretched like Jon’s refusal changes nothing. “We’re at the Olympics. We’ve been tested for every fucking thing under the sun. We’re fine.”

His eyes are earnest, and Jon can’t believe what an idiot Sid is. And he definitely can’t believe he let this idiot be in charge of their sex stuff.

“Shut up, asshole” he snaps, “it isn’t just about being clean. This shit’s about trust. You don’t get to take that for granted.”

Sid shrugs. “I trust you. We’re a team, right?”

Jon doesn’t even want to look at that one too closely. Sid’s a freak if he thinks being on a hockey team is the same thing as being willing to lick up a guy’s come.

He still can’t look away.

Sid’s grin goes crooked, like he knows that Jon just wants a push to try this stuff out. Hell, Jon’s come so far, he might as well. Jon is so over this shit already but Sid’s got that expression of challenge like if Jon’s a bad sport about this, he’ll always know: Jon’ll always be the guy who broke first, that messed up whatever fucked-up game they were playing, that couldn’t take the deal and make things fair again after.

And it’s like Sid is reading his mind, because he says, “You owe me for breaking the rules,” and gestures again with his hand like he’s telling Jon to fucking eat up already.

Jon pushes off the bed gracelessly, stomps over and grabs Sid’s hand. But before he can lean in, Sid pushes him off, shoves him back with his other hand, and hisses, “I fucking _told_ you not to touch me!”

Jesus, so they’re back to that, Jon thinks, exasperated. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to lick Sid’s hand or whatever without touching him. But he holds his hands up, signalling a truce, steps back, and resumes standing with his hands clasped behind his back, legs braced apart.

Sid looks vaguely gratified by this even if he continues to glare; there’s something about the edges of his eyes and the way his mouth is relaxed that lets Jon know that he’s done well this time. Jon resolutely does not roll his eyes.

He does, however, open his mouth when Sid brings his hand up, licks carefully at Sid’s palm. He tries not to concentrate on the taste but on Sid’s other hand which is back to making those long careful sweeps down his side.

“Yeah, like that,” Sid mutters. Jon flushes and pushes his tongue out further, presses into the spaces between Sid’s fingers.

Jon keeps his eyes on Sid, tries to keep his gaze steady even when Sid takes his still wet hand away and starts jerking Jon’s cock, slow and smooth, rubbing Sid’s come into the slit at the tip of Jon’s cock.

Jon startles at this and jerks his hips away, but Sid frowns and jerks him back, stops stroking Jon to slap hard at his side. Jon jerks again but manages not to move too much this time. His heart is beating like a fucking drum. 

Sid goes back to rubbing the sensitive head of Jon’s cock, digging the nails of his other hand into Jon’s side. The fucking contrast of it is killing Jon because his cock feels good but it’s too much and the pain in his side doesn’t hurt enough.

God, if Sid would just let him move his damn hips, let him fuck into Sid’s hand or Jon’s hand or anything, anything, fuck.

Jon’s heaving deep breaths and just trying to hold on when Sid looks up, scowls at him, and says belligerently, “I’m serious about not moving this time.”

 _What the fuck_. Seriously, Jon’s going to fucking punch him in the face at this rate –

Sid tightens his grip on Jon’s cock and leans in to lick around the head, wraps his lips around just the tip so Jon can see the pink head of his dick press up against Sid’s lush lips.

Sid flicks his eyes up so he’s looking right at Jon when he sucks and pulls his hand from Jon’s side to rake his nails hard down Jon's inner thigh.

Jon lets out a low moan because the sensation isn’t pain. No, it’s a burn or a throbbing that Sid is sucking out of him, pulling from his nipples, his thigh, his side, the length of his cock to lie at the end of Sid’s fluttering tongue. He wobbles, nearly puts his hands on Sid’s shoulders, and only just manages to catch himself in time.

He can’t stop gasping for breath, the sound overlaying the squelches of Sid sucking his cock; shit, _sucking his own fucking come off Jon’s cock_.

The knowledge coupled with the visuals and the sensation of Sid’s warm mouth sucking so carefully around just the head - the rest of Jon’s dick gone spit cold - is overwhelming, and Jon stumbles back, falls until he feels the wall at his back and comes, spurting out onto the carpet in short pulses. His thighs rub together and Jon can still feel his nipples ache and it’s like his whole body is exploding out his dick.

Jon slams his eyes shut so he can’t see Sid watching this, watching Jon come apart and flop against the wall, cock still swollen and leaking against his thigh. He definitely doesn’t want to see the small trail of jizz he’s left near Weber’s bed.

For a while the only sound in the room is the sound of them breathing, Jon’s rasps overlaying Sid’s quieter huffs.

Eventually Sid stands and offers Jon a hand - “C’mon, up” – and shoves Jon towards his clothes.

Jon feels emptied and wrung out, like half his insides came out his cock. He’s never come like that before, like his whole body was part of the experience. It takes him a while to finally snap out of his stupor and start dressing, wincing when he pulls his boxers back on over his sticky cock. He yanks his sweatpants and t-shirt back on and resolutely doesn’t hiss at the scrape of the material over his still sensitive nipples.

Sid watches him as he dresses, face suddenly seeming softer, younger and more like the Sid Jon’s used to. Sid grins goofily and says, “ _Told_ you I had a system.”

And maybe it’s 'cause Jon’s just come his brains out, or because weird as it was Sid’s stupid touch thing was fucking hot in the end, or maybe it’s because they’re here at the end of it all – gold and fucking getting off - but Jon doesn’t snap at him.

Instead he just grins back, says “Yeah,” soft and fond, and leans back against the wall to catch his breath a little more.


End file.
